The Christmas Couple
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Castiel reflects on why he associates the Winchesters with the Christmas season. WARNING: Contains an AU, weight gain, unrelated Wincest, stuffing, hints of a feeder/feedee relationship, Wincestiel, and chubby!Sam/Dean/Castiel. Don't read if any of that sounds unappealing to you.


**Okay - a very merry (and late...I'm sorry, it took awhile to get this written, typed, and edited) Christmas to everyone who pays attention to me for my WG stuff!**

**And happy holidays, to those of you who don't celebrate Christmas. Before anyone starts complaining...canonically, the Winchester brothers celebrate Christmas, and because Castiel mentions the Bible several times, I would assume that, though he's a Judeo-Christian angel, he's more Christian that Judeo, so...he celebrates Christmas, too. Sorry if I offended you.**

**And that stupid title. That pathetic title. I will regret it for the rest of my life, that I couldn't think of anything better to call this story.**

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><p>There were innumerable reasons, Castiel thought, that he associated Sam and Dean Winchester (formerly Sam Campbell and Dean Winchester) so heavily with the holiday season. Pun completely intended.<p>

One was likely that that was when they had first met. Castiel remembered it very vividly, because he had been sharing an apartment with Dean at the time, both twenty years old. He had been pursuing a theology degree and Dean had been going to technical school to refine his already-impressive mechanic skills, but they split the rent cleanly down the middle, since they'd developed a powerful friendship during their last year of high school. It was a tiny apartment. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining room. Castiel occupied the bedroom at the moment and Dean slept on the couch; but they switched out every couple of months. Castiel came home from his last class on the nineteenth of December, locked the door behind him, expected to find Dean sprawled out on the couch when he turned around, and instead saw a reed-thin brunette, violently shivering despite being wrapped in the comforter from the apartment's one bed.

Castiel turned his head to the side and squinted at the boy, as if that might make him resolve into his muscular, dirty-blond roommate. It didn't help much. He dropped his messenger bag on the floor with a thud of textbooks, but the boy didn't seem to notice, not reacting beyond squeezing his hazel eyes shut. Castiel gave him a wide berth as he entered the apartment true, and immediately fixed Dean with a demanding blue gaze when he came out of the small bathroom with a tub of steaming water in his hands.

"Dean," Castiel said, "who's our guest?"

"Oh," Dean said. "That's Sam." As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a half-frozen teenager to be sitting on their couch, water dripping out of his hair as the snow matted into it melted.

"All right," Castiel said, standing where he was, stock-still, as Dean knelt in front of Sam and set the tub down. He watched him pat one of his comforter-clad legs and murmur, "Feet up," then slide the tub beneath his lifted feet. "What...exactly...is he doing here?" He kept his voice as polite as possible while Sam hissed at plunging his feet into the water.

"Sorry," he muttered. Dean straightened up to clap him on the shoulder, and Castiel was surprised that he didn't just buckle under his hand.

"Don't apologize," Dean assured. "Just focus on keeping all your toes." He gestured to Sam's feet, then padded over to Castiel. He'd taken his shoes off. "He was hitching out near the freeway," he explained. "In this blizzard..." Castiel self-consciously brushed powdery snow off of the shoulders of his coat. "Wearing jeans and a button down. And tennis shoes. Freaking _tennis shoes._"

Castiel glanced at Sam, who was very politely ignoring them. "That would explain why he seems to have hypothermia."

"His hands and feet were blue," Dean said. Castiel returned his attention to him.

"Is he homeless?" he asked quietly, thinking about crippling drug habits and junkies who looked much younger than they actually were.

"His grandpa kicked him out this morning."

"Drugs?"

"_No._ The kid's a goddamn honor student. Sings in his church's choir. Or...well, used to, anyway."

Castiel saw Sam flinch a little beneath the comforter. He grabbed Dean's shoulder and drew him into the bedroom, firmly closing the door. Dean could restore an engine built in 1910 in under an hour, but tactful he was certainly not.

"Can't he go to a shelter, Dean?" Castiel asked, shaking his head.

Dean gave him a wounded look, sitting down on the stripped bed. "Cas. C'mon. It's Christmas...have a heart."

"This apartment is designed for one person," Castiel said, folding his arms across his chest. "Not two, and certainly not three. Where do you plan on letting him sleep?"

"With me," Dean said, with a quickness that made Castiel suspect he'd already thought about it. "The couch folds out, right?"

"In theory," Castiel replied, then shook his head. "But, with you?...he can't be more than sixteen."

Dean gave him a disgusted look, and Castiel felt a little guilty. He had been very open and very proud about being bisexual ever since the first day of college, but Castiel had never brought it up before now. It had become something of a taboo topic between them.

"He's not," he said. "D'you think I'm some kinda sex offender? I don't go for jailbait."

"All right...all right," Castiel relented. "He sleeps with you..."

"Just for the holidays," Dean said, shaking his own head. "Once school starts again, he thinks he has some friends who'll take him in."

"And is he all right with this?" Castiel asked.

"...sort of," Dean said, after some hesitation. "I couldn't really get a clear answer out of him. I think his brain might be sorta frozen."

Castiel exhaled explosively through his nose, then briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, "I'll go and make him some coffee. He needs to warm up from the inside out."

He hadn't realized how tense Dean was over this until he saw him relax, getting to his feet and smiling easily at him. He patted his shoulder and opened the bedroom door.

"This is a good thing, Cas," he said, following him out of the bedroom. Sam looked up and blinked tiredly as they passed. "Just wait and see."

The Christmas break for the high school that Sam attended lasted two weeks, and needless to say, he didn't leave the apartment at the end of that. He just went back to school. Dean had gotten far too attached to him for his own good, and vice-versa, and even though neither of him ever said anything, Castiel began to understand why Sam's grandfather didn't want him around anymore. He had a set of soft, dewy puppy eyes that immediately appeared whenever he looked at Dean, and then eventually whenever he thought about him. Castiel very quickly learned not to sit between him and Dean when the three of them sat down to watch a movie, because their pet high schooler would physically climb over him in order to snuggle against his savior. Dean rarely had homework in his chosen academic path, but when he did, it was a guarantee that Sam would be helping him with it.

But the most obvious proof of his affection (and his sexuality) came from his attitude towards Dean's cooking. After he came out of his initial shell, he chattered on and on to Castiel about his fitness regimen and how balanced his diet was and his need for all of that because, despite his age, he had a very slow metabolism. Dead did not cook healthy. He thought that French fries counted as a vegetable. His cooking was heavy, rich with butter, cheese, milk, and meat, and it tasted incredible. When he didn't feel like cooking, he brought home pizza or burgers. Castiel had gained the freshman fifteen in under two months eating what Dean served him, until he started getting serious about visiting the student gym. After Sam had climbed onto his soapbox about his healthy lifestyle, Castiel had expected him to complain about the greasy food, but no. He ate everything that Dean put in front of him.

It showed by the time that he and Dean moved out together - right after the second Christmas that Sam spent in the apartment. He'd gone up three sizes, many of his diamond-sharp edges had vanished under soft curves, and he could eat twice as much as he'd been able to when he first came to them. Castiel suspected that that had come from him trying to bury his frustration over the fact that Dean would not so much as kiss him, despite his frequent advances over the last few months, in food. His new clothes were already getting tight, and he jiggled slightly in certain areas when he walked. He wasn't fat, not even chubby; he'd simply filled out, and Castiel thought that as he watched him carry a box of books down the stairs.

"A bigger apartment?" Castiel asked Dean, who nodded. "You'll need it. He's never going to move out."

Dean grinned. "I sure hope he doesn't."

They ended up marrying each other, of course. And their wedding was another reason that Castiel thought of the Winchesters every time the Christmas decorations went up: it had been in late December.

He hadn't expected an invitation, to be honest. He hadn't spoken much to Sam and Dean after they had moved out of the cramped apartment that they shared with him, because he'd relocated to Rome to continue his studies. The one that held Vatican City, not one of the thirteen or so knockoffs that dotted North America. It had been difficult to adjust to a new language, but he'd always had a gift for things like that, and he was fluent and very happy after three years in the city. He'd made a spur-of-the-moment decision and was in the process of being ordained when a battered envelope, cluttered with international stamps and forwarding addresses, arrived. Castiel called the RSVP number two minutes after opening it up.

"I'll be a priest in a month, but I can't marry you two." That was how he greeted Dean when he picked up. Dean laughed, a little incredulously.

"Did you just make a joke?" he asked. "Man, Europe must've really loosened you up. Did you meet somebody?"

"I'm not allowed to, Dean."

"Oh. Right, right. The, uh, celibacy thing...are you coming? I know you'll be a priest by then, but don't worry, we've got a judge who's okay with it."

"When did you propose?" Castiel asked.

"Me? Little over two months ago," Dean said. There was affectionate exasperation in his voice as he added, "But Sammy proposed on his eighteenth birthday. I turned him down, of course."

"Noble," Castiel commented.

"Oh, shut it, Father Novak. Think you can look past the metric ton of premarital sex we've had - over the past year, no sooner, swear to God - and show up?" Dean asked. "Just, y'know, for me?" Castiel heard whispering, then Dean amended, "Us?"

"I'd be honored," Castiel said.

"Good. 'Cause you're kinda the best man."

Dean hung up then. Castiel squinted down at the phone, much like he had squinted at Sam four years ago.

But he bought a tuxedo, based on the specifications and pictures that were later e-mailed to him and returned to the United States. Sam and Dean had moved to South Dakota in order to be closer to Dean's uncle (who wasn't actually related to him and also happened to be the only family he had left) and further away from Sam's grandfather (who was miraculously still alive and had not exactly blessed the marriage). He found a hotel room after an embarrassing number of flight delays, then made his way to the home of Dean's uncle, where the rehearsal was being held.

When the door was answered, he opened his mouth to apologize for being so late, but was interrupted when two hundred and seventy pounds or so of someone he didn't immediately recognize all but tackled him. Castiel was confused - and a little frightened - until the man pulled back, and he could take in the chestnut waves, the bright hazel eyes, the sharp nose...

"Sam?" he asked. He couldn't keep surprise out of his voice, and for good reason. The invitation he had received hadn't included an engagement picture, and the Sam he remembered was...maybe two hundred and ten. Maybe.

Sam smiled, looking embarrassed. "Yeah, it's me...and I know. We've already had to resize my tux once." He stepped back, into light and warmth and raucous laughter that made Castiel suddenly and intensely aware of how lonely he'd been for the last three years, and gestured awkwardly. "Come on in."

"What?" Castiel asked as he stepped inside, wanting to fix the damage he had just done. "No, that isn't what I meant. You just...Sam, you look so very grown up."

That had been the right thing to say, and it was true, as well. Sam's hair was longer and styled more maturely, well-trimmed stubble lined his jaw, he carried himself with much more confidence, his voice had deepened. And he was _tall_. Taller than Dean, probably, and unmistakably taller than Castiel himself - by almost a full head. That was where some of the new weight had come from, but...not most of it. Sam had a pronounced belly, a bottom that was rounded with much more than muscle, and small breasts that were shapely enough to rival those of a woman. His face was soft, harsh cheekbones hidden under cushiony swells of fat, and five more pounds would give him a double chin. Castiel wondered if the form-fitting shirt and slacks had been his idea, or Dean's. And if he'd thought that he jiggled three years ago...

Castiel couldn't muster up any disgust, though. Or even concern, for how much weight had piled itself onto Sam's formerly-scrawny frame in the space of only a few years. It was obvious that his new fiance had been taking very good care of him, and he was so supremely different from the shivering waif that Dean had brought home four years ago that Castiel was incapable of feeling anything but happiness for him.

"Aren't there traditionally two best men?" he asked a smiling, obviously-flattered Sam as they moved towards the kitchen. "In this sort of wedding, I mean."

"Oh, there are," Sam assured. They stopped just short of where everyone else was, where they wouldn't be noticed. "The other one is...what does he call him?...oh, right. Dean's, uh, 'bastard half-brother.'"

"Adam?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure how much he likes me."

"Then..." Castiel blinked. "I'm yours."

Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yep." A pause. "Is that okay?"

"Of course. I just don't understand," Castiel admitted.

"Well..." Sam rocked back on his heels. "You could've thrown me out four years ago. But you didn't. And that's why I am where I am." He smiled. "Plus, considering how many times I've lain with another man, I figure that I could use a priest on my side to put in a good word for me."

Castiel laughed, and allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, where he was greeted like a family member, eyed disapprovingly by Dean's bastard half-brother, and offered an explanation as to why Sam was at his current size, as he watched Dean diligently refill his plate every time he ran out of something.

Castiel walked Adam down the aisle, and Adam behaved with much more grace than would have expecting of him. He didn't mind Castiel taking his arm, even though they'd been given a choice when it came to that, and he kept a civil tongue in his head for the entire day. Sam and Dean were wed in a hotel ballroom, in front of a massive and well-decorated tree, and the ceremony (beautiful and simple) went off without a hitch. At the reception, he watched the two of them make soft, dewy puppy dog eyes at one another as Dean fed Sam cake until he had to slip off his cummerbund and unbutton his shirt.

"They're a beautiful couple," he murmured to Adam.

"They deserve each other," Adam replied.

Castiel gave the new Mr. and Mr. Winchester a set of high-end cookware for their wedding present. They went on a cross-country road trip in Dean's lovingly-restored (Castiel assumed) 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and he flew back to Rome for another nine months the day that they left. They called him once a week, and he came to look forward to that.

There were more reasons than those two, though, for his knee-jerk association. One was the fact that theirs were the only names he had ever put on the guest list for his family's annual Christmas party. He loved the Winchesters too much to invite them, and he envied their happiness too much to keep them away.

There were two things that people who came into contact with Castiel Novak knew about him before anything else: that he came from money, and that he was the black sheep of his family. He had been his father's favorite to take over the family conglomerate (which manufactured religious paraphernalia of all kinds), but instead, he had moved in with his mechanic best friend, gotten a useless degree in theology, and left his four older brothers to fight over their father's legacy. Seven years later, Raphael (adopted) was dead from a car accident, Gabriel (eldest) had disappeared into Southeast Asia with his Indian wife, and Michael and Lucifer (twins) were locked in a bitter power struggle over the family business. They were both surrounded by shady rumors of mafia ties, drug abuse, and incest, and Castiel knew Mike and Luci well enough to believe most of them.

Castiel had been assigned to a church fifty miles away from his hometown and thirty from the university that he had initially attended three months ago. He had been extremely reluctant to leave his parish for the disaster that his family and their fair-weather friends called a Christmas party - after all, it was the holidays, he was the only one in that small church since the previous priest had suffered a massive stroke, and there were many people in need of spiritual guidance at this time of year. But his mother had somehow managed to guilt him into it, and also she promised him access to the guest list. She read over his two additions and assumed that "Sam" was short for "Samantha," and he let her.

So that was how he ended up standing at the foot of one of the sweeping staircases in his childhood home, next to his mother because he really didn't know anybody else, and listening to her complain about everyone who crossed her line of sight.

"Lucifer _split_ his _tongue_," Mrs. Novak informed Castiel, voice heavy with disapproval. "Why on _Earth_ would he do something like that? It looks _disgusting_."

Castiel very nearly had to bite his own tongue to keep from pointing out that maybe, if his parents hadn't wanted their son to turn out to be a half-psychotic sadist with millions of dollars in blood money and a forked tongue, they shouldn't have named him Lucifer. Instead, he mildly asked, "Does Michael like it?" and felt like he needed to present a cross in order to protect himself from the look that his mother shot him.

"Don't even get me started on _Michael_," she went on.

"All right." Castiel scanned the huge room. The massive trees that dotted it, the buffet tables, the dance floor that no one was using for its intended purpose. The party had technically started an hour ago, and the Winchesters hadn't arrived yet. Had he really sent them an invitation? Yes, he remembered mailing it. Maybe it had gotten lost.

"Your cousin is sleeping with her personal trainer," Castiel's mother told him, leaning in close so that he couldn't tune out her voice. He struggled to recall Bible verses or psalms that extolled patience as a virtue. "Her husband - oh, good _Lord_."

"Mother," Castiel reprimanded softly. It was a knee-jerk reaction. He followed her horrified gaze, and relaxed. "Oh...those are my friends."

He had expected Sam to be much heavier. After all, it had been a year, and he and Dean were married now - in certain states. Castiel had imagined that Dean would be feeding his new husband nonstop, and it looked like he had been. Sam had to be at least three hundred pounds. Everything was soft, round, voluptuous. He bounced, and it was mesmerizing. Even if he hadn't had an ounce of fat on him, Castiel could tell that he would have been a huge man, and as it was, he carried the extra weight exceedingly well. A beautifully-tailored tuxedo accentuated his shapely belly and love handles and other assets, and Castiel could swear that he was glowing. His hair was glossy, he looked happy and relaxed, and despite his large and obvious curves, there was definitely a certain strength about him. And Dean was all but glued to his side, one arm around his impressive waist. He must have been spending a lot of time out in the sun, because his hair was lighter and he had more freckles splashed across his face.

"You're joking," Castiel's mother said, turning to stare at him. "He's _massive_."

"Hardly," Castiel replied. "He's six-five. He's probably less than fifty pounds overweight - he's just well-fed. His husband adores him." He glanced at her, pointedly, then added, "And I would bet you a hundred dollars that his cholesterol is lower than yours."

Castiel left his mother glaring at him, hurrying over in order to intercept the Winchesters. He was greeted by a hug from each, and though he sank into Sam, he also realized that there were powerful muscles under the thick layer of fat. He realized that he was smiling so widely his mouth hurt.

"Hey, thanks so much for inviting us," Dean said, taking hold of one of Castiel's hands and shaking it warmly. He looked him up and down as he added, "The invitation said it was black tie, so..."

"It is," Castiel assured. He was in traditional dress - simple black with a clerical collar at his throat. "Don't...don't worry about me. And don't talk to anybody. Everyone here is petty and shallow." He glanced around the room. "And by this point in the evening, heavily intoxicated. Did you fly?"

"No, we drove," Sam replied. "I can still fit in the passenger seat of the Impala - barely - but no way could I make it into a plane seat."

"Sammy, c'mon, you're not that big," Dean said, shaking his head. They had migrated over to one of the trees, the scent of pine heavy on the air, and were avoiding the other partygoers in order to speak to each other in a bubble of isolation. That was mostly Castiel's doing. "Stop beating up on yourself. You want something to eat?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm starving."

After making sure, with Castiel, that all the food on the tables was good and therefore fit for Sam's discerning palate, Dean headed off. Once he was gone, Sam turned to Castiel with a sigh. He reached up in order to brush a strand of chocolate-colored hair out of his face.

"Cas, I swear, I think he's trying to kill me," he said, shaking his head with half of a smile. Castiel laughed a little despite himself.

"Why would you think that?"

Sam reached down and took hold of his belly, gently rounded. It was restrained by his clothing, but he still managed to give it a shake. Castiel leaned against the wall and put his hands in his pockets, watching with a carefully disinterested expression on his face.

"I've put on fifty pounds since the wedding," he said.

"Well, it looks good on you," Castiel pointed out. Sam looked down with a smile.

"Yeah, that's what Dean always says," he agreed. "But, seriously...the _food._ If I'm at home, Dean's stuffing me. I've been growing ever since he brought me home that first time, and it's all because of his cooking - and all the other stuff that he shoves at me."

Castiel made a noise that meant nothing at all, and Sam seemed to take that as a cue to keep talking. "He's working on cars all day, and he just got some contract work with a construction company. He's active. If he gains weight, it just melts right off of him, but me...well, I think that I told you about how slow my metabolism is, and then I'm sedentary, too." He licked his lips, and looked a little proud as he said, "I'm going to school. I'm gonna get my undergrad degree, and then I'm gonna study law."

"You'll be very, very good at that," Castiel said. "But, Sam...Dean wants to take care of you. That's all he's ever wanted, ever since he first found you. He seems to equate food with affection and love. If you don't like the extra weight, then talk to him about it."

Sam sighed and shook his head. "I couldn't do that. He likes watching me eat too much. And..." His cheeks were looking a little pink. "It's not entirely his fault."

"No?" Castiel asked.

"A bakery opened right down the street from where we're living right now." Sam folded his arms across his chest. "I'm taking online classes at Stanford, so I go there, and stuff myself all day, and then I waddle home and eat three helpings of whatever Dean's made." He shook his head again. "I was _so_ into salads when I was a teenager, but now I just love sugar. And everything else unhealthy."

Castiel laughed for the second time, and assured, "I think that you're perfectly healthy, Sam. You're very strong. You aren't breathing hard right now, are you? You and Dean are happy together, and you love each other very much. If you like to eat, then let him feed you."

Sam smirked and put a hand on his stomach. Dean returned about a minute later with two china plates that were overflowing with food, mostly sweets, and emptied both into Sam. They sat eventually, and talked, and Castiel watched Dean fill his husband's belly near to bursting and keep it that way throughout the entire evening. He smiled every time they addressed him as "Father," allowed himself to be soothed by Dean's Kansas twang, and discussed Sam's classes with him. They didn't fit in with the usual crowd that attended his family's get-togethers, and Castiel couldn't be more grateful for that fact.

They came to many more Christmas parties after that one. Castiel kept inviting them, and it wasn't just to spite his mother. Sam must have taken his advice to heart, because he was rounder every year, his waddle a little more pronounced, his appetite larger. Dean worshiped every inch of him. When he and Castiel were both twenty-nine, he proved that everything he did was with Sam's best interests in mind, when they were both filling plates for him at the food-laden tables in the middle of the room.

"I'm not bringing Sammy next year," he said, lifting squares of cake onto the plate he was carrying with the tongs provided. He used to use his fingers, but his manners had improved since Castiel had started inviting him to these parties. "Or, well, we're not coming, since there's no way in hell I'm gonna leave him at home while I drive twelve hundred miles."

Castiel looked up from a dish of bread pudding, and blinked at Dean. He had been in close contact with the Winchesters since last Christmas, and neither of them had mentioned anything about this; it had come out of the blue. "Why?"

Dean straightened up, a full plate in each hand. "I've heard what everybody here says about him, and I've seen how they look at him. But if I have anything to say about it, he's not gonna."

"They stare at all of us," Castiel said.

"They stare at you 'cause you show up in your priest costume every year," Dean said. "I think you make 'em uncomfortable about drinking and coking and whoring all night. They stare at me 'cause I'm white trash - I'm a monkey in a suit. But they stare at Sam because he's fat. Because he's needed two chairs for the past year and a half. Because we've gotta get his clothes made specially now."

"He hasn't noticed, though," Castiel pointed out.

"No," Dean agreed. "He hasn't. He hasn't noticed that they call him a whale or a blimp, either, or that your fucking cousins have started betting on when he's gonna have a heart attack."

Castiel felt his cheeks burn. "I apologize for that."

"Don't," Dean said. "That money's not going anywhere until Sammy's ninety. Went to the doctor a month ago, and I thought that _he_ was going to have a heart attack, because Sam's heart and lungs and everything make him look like he's sixteen and two hundred pounds. But my point..." He leaned a hip against the table. "...is that he couldn't handle it if he knew. He still bawls his eyes out every couple of weeks because his grandpa died before they could make up. He might be taking the bar exam next year, but he's still just a kid. He can't hear all the stuff that your asshole family's been saying about him." He set one of the plates down, then put his hand over his heart. "My little fatty's sensitive."

Castiel snorted, giving Dean an unimpressed look. "Does he know that you call him that?"

"He actually started it," Dean said with a shrug. He picked the plate up again. "It'll only be worse next year, because he'll be bigger. A lot bigger, with the way he's been eating. And I love him too much to bring him into this kinda environment then."

Castiel looked at Dean as they walked back to where Sam was waiting for them. The elder Winchester had a bit of a belly this year, pillow-soft extra pounds that had settled around his waist and tightened his tuxedo a little. His diet seemed to finally be catching up with him. It made sense, given his age. Castiel couldn't help but imagine that Sam loved that dab of pudge, kissed and nipped and massaged it in bed.

"So you won't come?" Castiel asked. "Even if I invite you again?"

"We can't come," Dean confirmed.

Castiel faced forward again, and took a deep breath. "I suppose that I'll have to come to you, then."

Perhaps the only real reason (or at least the most prominent) that Castiel could not think about the Winchesters without thinking about Christmas, or vice-versa, was that it seemed to be their very favorite time of the year. Maybe that was because it was when they used to see the most of him. It wasn't anymore, though, since he had left the clergy behind after the first time he had gone to their home for the holidays and had stayed the second. It was now technically the third, and both were happier than he had seen them in twelve months - which was saying something.

Seasonal music drifted out of a distant radio that Castiel had yet to locate as the combined glow of the tree and the fire permeated the already well-lit kitchen. Where Dean was zipping around much faster than his rotund frame should have been able to allow, checking on each dish every thirty seconds and fretting over the ingredients that he had most certainly not left out by mistake.

"If there's something slippery on the floor and you step on it," Castiel commented from his position in one of the kitchen chairs, "you'll break your neck and you will have deserved it."

Dean huffed testily as he stirred a bubbling pot of something on the stove. It smelled fruity, sugary, and Castiel's mouth watered despite everything he'd already eaten tonight. "Maybe I won't if, y'know, you actually get off your ass and help."

"You said you didn't want my help," Castiel said. "Or Sam's. You chased him into the hallway when he tried anyway."

"That's 'cause Sam takes up half the kitchen." Dean had to stretch in order to grab a box of confectioner's sugar from one of the very top shelves in a cabinet. His shirt lifted slightly, exposing a swath of swollen, freckled flesh. "D'you know what you want for Christmas yet?"

Castiel smiled. "Not yet."

"Time's running out, man." Dean took a handful of the sugar and sprinkled it liberally over a teaming, sticky brown cake that had been out of the oven for less than ten minutes.

"I know." Castiel thought about cuddling into Sam's deliciously-warm belly after shoveling snow for two hours. A stomach ridiculously full of chocolate, bulging, really, after Valentine's Day. Dean's stubble against his bare chest. Not being able to so much as sit down without having to stand back up with a full belly. Lying, exhausted and sweaty, between two plush bodies, and feeling a thrill run through him with the realization that his own had begun to soften. "I think I already have everything I want, though."

"Well, you'd better have gotten me something." Dean sliced the cake, businesslike, then picked it up. He walked over to Castiel, though it was really more of a waddle, considering that his thighs had begun to touch. "Try this, Cas. I wanna make it for Christmas dinner, but I need to know if it's good or not first."

"Oh, Dean..." Castiel groaned as he forced himself to his feet. He wasn't anywhere near as well-muscled as Sam or Dean, and hadn't been even before he started gaining weight, so the fifty or so extra pounds that he was carrying around slowed him down quite a bit. Not to mention what was currently in his stomach, swelling and stretching it to the point that his shirt had ridden up, his sweatpants had ridden down, and it looked like he was at least seven months pregnant. "I don't think I can. I'm full."

Dean poked the taut skin of his belly, then declared, "You're not full until you're in a food coma." He thrust the cake at him. Castiel put one hand on his pastry-stuffed stomach and used the other to reluctantly take it from him. "Just a slice or two. Just enough to know how it tastes."

"I have no idea why we need so much food," Castiel commented, taking the hand off of his belly and picking up a slice of the cake with it. Dean just arched a single eyebrow, as if to ask, "Have you looked at the three of us lately?" Castiel took a bite, and closed his eyes at the smooth, near-heavenly blended flavors of brown sugar and cinnamon and nutmeg and butter and vanilla. Despite how full he was, a loud growl of hunger rumbled up from the depths of his stomach. He'd devoured two slices before he even realized it, and he looked down at the cake as he sucked powdered sugar off of his index finger. "I'm...going to go and share the rest of this with Sam."

"Save some for me." Dean returned to all of the other dishes, but then called over his shoulder as Castiel moved to leave the kitchen. "Hey, Cas?"

"Mm?" His mouth was full again. When had that happened?

"Merry Christmas, angel." Dean took another cake out of the oven, and Castiel smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."


End file.
